


she's made him hate everything

by deathtosanepeople



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon Autistic Character, Dark, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Junkmetra Week, Literally the worst angst please prepare yourself, Stolen Moments, Symmrat Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9361664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtosanepeople/pseuds/deathtosanepeople
Summary: He can’t go outside. Every trace of perfume from the surrounding flora is torment itself, every head hemmed by shiny, long locks- black as soot and fine as ash- tears an already dripping wound into a unstemmable ooze.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erinns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinns/gifts).



> So this is angsty as all hell and honestly if you want to blame someone for it, erinns is the culprit because she encouraged this agony. Thanks for that babe. Also, thanks for beta-ing the fic, always giving encouragement, and being patient with me. (Side note: neither of us is Australian, so if we've made mistakes on Junkrat's dialogue, please let me know and I will change it) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

He hates the color blue.  
  
He’s wiped his room clean of it, erased every trace from his clothes.  
  
He’d nearly torn his nails off in the haste to chip the blue polish she’d put on his nails the week before _it_ happened. Mei had saved him by giving him her fingernail polish remover. She’d looked so sympathetic he’d almost lost it all over again.  
  
He hates the color blue, and he hates how he notices it everywhere now.  
  
Was it everywhere like this before?  
  
He hates the blue sky, the blue water, the blue of glowing computer screens, the blue of the mugs in the mess hall, the blue handle of his toothbrush.  
  
He throws that out.  
  
Still, blue is everywhere, and with it, so is she.  
  
He hears echoes of quiet, girlish giggles she’d tried so hard to hide from him, making him even more keen to draw them out. He hears sincere, soft confessions, that made him wonder how she could say them so solemnly, so truthfully, obviously when they were the farthest thing from the truth.  
  
_“Jamison,” she murmurs, peering at him. He still gets a thrill from hearing her say his real name. He doesn’t think he ever won’t._  
  
_“Your eyes are the same color as my constructs I think.”_  
  
_“Is that a good thing, then love?”_  
  
_She smiles, there is grace in her every expression, even her angry ones, and he suddenly wishes he knew how to draw more than schematics and blueprints. Maybe someday he’ll try._  
  
_“Well, yes,” her smile artfully twists into a teasing grin, a gentle sloping sashay into something sharper, yet still unbearably kind. “I think that constructs are the most beautiful things in creation, real or man made. I suppose that would make your eyes very beautiful.”_  
  
_Her smile widens as he gapes at her unbelievingly, and his fingers itch for a pencil._  
  
He wishes he’d tried to draw her sooner.  
  
He hates the color red too. And his classic orange is so close to that cursed color, he finds himself wearing green more often than not these days.  
  
He’s also base bound more often than not.  
  
He can’t go outside. Every trace of perfume from the surrounding flora is torment itself, every head hemmed by shiny, long locks- black as soot and fine as ash- tears an already dripping wound into a unstemmable ooze.  
  
He’d tried to go out with Roadie, see if they could find something to get his mind out of the rut it was in, and he’d followed some bird for blocks, just because she had the slightest resemblance to Satya.  
  
When she’d disappeared, it was like living the moment all over again. All he could see was red. Bright, angry, blaring red, making his eyes ache.  
  
He’d painted everything red that night, just as she had, exactly like she had. Same place, same cruel, steel, weapon.  
  
Roadie had found him, damn the giant bastard. He’d found him and stopped him before he could finish his destruction. He doesn’t know if he loves Hog or hates him for it. But he’ll go with hate for now, he seems to hate everything these days.  
  
She’s made him hate everything.  
  
He hates laughter, it feels rancid in his own mouth, leaves a sour aftertaste when he swallows it down. He can’t bare it in others either, all he hears is mocking squawks of circling birds, mocking his pain.  
  
All he can hear is her.  
  
_“You don’t really believe in that do you?”_  
  
_Her face is alight with mirth. Crikes, she’s brighter than the bloody moon._  
  
_“Course I do!” he replies, puffing his chest out to show he’s unafraid. “But I wasn’t scared of the fucker! Me an’ Roadie almost caught him once, I think. Wasn’t such a scary beastie.”_  
  
_She rolls her eyes. “Jamison, it’s highly unlikely that if there **were** such a creature there would only be one of its kind. And if that **were** the case, there would more than likely be multiple reliable sightings of the creature.”_  
  
_“Hey!” He pushes off from his kneeling position, swaying a little on his knees. He goes nose to nose with her, she’s sitting on the edge of his bed, observing him amusedly. He may be a little drunk. Or actually, a lot drunk. But somebody has to defend the bloody monstrosities’ honor by hell! “Don’t ya go knocking the Bunyip! He’s a right legend!”_  
  
_Her eyebrow quirks, an elegant arch, as well crafted as her constructs. “And simply because it’s a legend I’m not allowed to question the validity of your reported encounter?”_  
  
_“Well,” he sputters, nearly tipping over as he falls back onto his heels. “maybe me an’ Roadie didn’t see ‘im that night. But he’s real. Real as you or me.”_  
  
_“Mhm,” she hums, and he loves, **loves** , when she does that. He wants to rest his head on her shoulder and press his ear to her throat, and let it vibrate straight through him, that beautiful soft little noise._  
  
_So he does._  
  
_She starts a little when he raises up again and thunks his forehead onto her shoulder, but she doesn’t push him away, which he counts as a win._  
  
_“Uhm, Jamie? What are you doing?”_  
  
_He sighs contentedly, his wet, alcohol soaked breath whooshing over her collarbone._  
  
_“Could ya do that humming thing again?” he asks, hoping against hope. “The ‘mhm’ noise?”_  
  
_He feels her swallows as much as he hears it, her throat moving against his ear, soft and warm._  
  
_“Mhm?” she hums questioningly, and he nearly purrs like a fucking cat, feeling the trembling vibrations, hearing the noise so close and clear._  
  
_“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, exactly like that.”_  
  
_Her giggles start out slow, intermittent huffy breaths punctuating the sound, but she quickly descends into full mirth, her throat thrumming pleasantly, deeper, husky laughs spreading through her, and then, him._  
  
_“This, this is heaven,” he thinks, and he never wants to leave._  
  
But he’d taken heaven from himself, hadn’t he? He deserved whatever hell awaited him on the other side, because he’d destroyed his only chance of heaven with his own bloody hands.  
  
He doesn’t deserve happiness ever again. And he hates that everyone seems to think he does. Telling him it’s not his fault, that he couldn’t have known, that all things have their end.  
  
He punched fucking Shimada the elder for that last one. Probably would have killed him if Roadie hadn’t dragged him away kicking and screaming.  
  
They’d all started avoiding him after that, almost the entire team. Or maybe that was after the briefing incident?  
  
He can’t really remember. He doesn’t sleep much anymore. Keeps his brain a bit foggy.  
  
He’d been running late, and used to, that didn’t unsettle him. Couldn’t be bothered to give a damn about timeliness, he’d make a King wait.  
  
But she’d made him hate being late.  
  
He’d stumbled into the meeting room, two minutes behind, breathless and sweating, but he’d thought it would be fine.  
  
It should have been fine.  
  
Then the big, dumb Gorilla had to go and open his giant trap. “Always a little late, huh, Mr. Junkrat?”  
  
He hadn’t meant anything by it.  
  
And neither had she, really.  
  
Intent didn’t stop the pain cascading over him, pushing him to the ground, making his knees weak, filling his throat, clogging his ears, blinding his eyes. Didn’t stop the hysterical sobbing Roadie had told him he’d fallen into, the mad keening tripping from his lungs, his usually high voice reaching new peaks— Roadie swore he’d seen the Gorilla’s glasses crack.  
  
Roadie had to retell him about the whole thing, he couldn’t remember a minute of it after those dreaded words. He hadn’t had a blackout panic attack like that since the outback, and it scared Mercy so bad she’d kept him overnight for observation, and insisted he take medication for the depression and the sleeping.  
  
“I know people can die from a broken heart, Jamison,” she told him as she’d let him go the next day, her eyes kind and worried, “but I’d prefer if you didn’t. Take care of yourself, please? I know it’s hard, but you can let us help you.”  
  
He’d nodded like he was supposed to, and then spent the next three days holed up in his room, just barely existing, those not-so-harmless little words on loop.  
  
_“Always a little late.” “Always a little late.” “Always a little late, hmm, Jamie?”_  
  
She hadn’t meant anything by it, but he thinks he’ll die with those words still ringing in his ears.  
  
The worst of it all, the very worst thing, the thing that makes him itch and shake, like an addict missing his next hit, the thing that has him nearly crawling the walls, lashing out at any living thing, leaving a path of hurt and cruelty in his wake—  
  
She’d made him hate his bombs.  
  
He’d avoided them for days after that week, side-eyeing them whenever he ambled into the work room, knowing he wasn’t going to touch them, but wanting to experience that comforting feeling they’d always managed to give him.  
  
That’s gone now. There is nothing left to give him peace, not his bombs, not her, not even Roadie.  
  
He’d stormed into the workshop three weeks later, determined to make something, anything, even if it was a dud. He’d barely had his hands on the metal for more than a moment when he’d started to shake, eyes blurring with tears, throat filling with loathing.  
  
Or maybe that was bile. Torbjorn told him he’d thrown up all over whatever he was working on, setting the whole thing smoking.  
  
“Not good to mix organic compounds with chemicals,” he’d reprimanded when Junkrat came back to himself, sitting against the wall in the hallway outside the room he’d lost his lunch in.  
  
Torbjorn had stared at him with a level of concern that seemed even surprising to him. “Perhaps it is best if you stay away till you feel more yourself again.”  
  
So he had.  
  
The problem being, Junkrat doesn’t think he’ll ever feel like himself again.  
  
He’d stopped eating as much after that. He is afraid of vomiting again, anything can set him off, any one of the things he now hates. So, he wastes away, no bombs, meager food, and nightmare riddled sleep.  
  
And that has to be the thing he hates with the utmost clarity.  
  
There is a well of abhorrence for those nighttime forays that burns deep and dark in his soul, a hate that attempts to shield him from his fear, a fear that consumes him every day, as soon as the sun begins to descend from the sky.  
  
He hates to dream.  
  
He’s never been quite fond of sleeping, the outback wasn’t a place for deep slumber and gentle dreams. You had to always be alert in the land of the scavengers, short naps and even shorter imaginings, there was no place or time for pleasure fantasies.  
  
It had gotten better when he’d come to Overwatch. A more regular routine, the idea of safety in numbers as he slowly grew to trust his teammates, all lead to smoother slumber. He’d been having the best sleep of his life before— before that week.  
  
He doesn’t sleep now. Not if he can help it. Only stolen power naps on top of desks, splayed on couches, and under the belly of Roadie’s motorcycle beast. (He’d finally caved and let Junkrat help him fix her up. It was the only thing either of them could think for him to do that wouldn’t trigger another episode.)  
  
He’d started helping in the garage more, being a mechanic was easy, he understood machines. Wasn’t that different from putting bombs back together, engines were. He’d gotten the hang of it in no time.  
  
And that’s where he spends his time— instead of sleeping. Under one of Overwatch’s numerous vehicles, planes or, after proving his natural prowess with the machinery, even the bloody Slipstream.  
  
He’ll catch five or ten minutes at a time, avoiding REM sleep, knowing that’s when the dreams will take him, burying him in the strongest of hate, a hate directed inwards, a hate threatening to burn him up from the inside, smoking and flaming like so many of his creations, imploding within.  
  
So he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t ever sleep.  
  
But sleep comes for everyone, doesn’t she? The bloody bitch.  
  
He wishes he knew how to escape dreams, wishes there was a way to hit stop, or fast forward through the horror show he puts on in his head when he finally does succumb to sleep.  
  
But there’s no stopping this slideshow from hell, not even a pause button so he doesn’t have to sit through the agony all at once.  
  
It always starts out happy, this dream, lulling him into a sense of peace, and somehow it always works, even though he knows what’s coming.  
  
_“Oi! Hog!” Junkrat’s bouncing on his heels, a mighty grin splitting his face. “Might want ta get yaself down! This one is gonna be a doozy!”_  
  
_Roadie grunts, unimpressed, as if to say; “When are they not?”_  
  
_“Alrighty then, let her rip!”_  
  
_He gleefully pushes the button, his anticipation at an all time high. This was going to be one of his biggest explosions yet. The blast range was going to be incredible—_  
  
_The boom that cracks through the air sends him rocketing up onto Roadie’s shoulders, climbing him like a child on the monkey bars, eager to see the destruction he’s wreaked._  
  
_“Bloody hell,” he whispers, in utter awe. “That’s bigger than I expected. Range is… crikey we’re gonna haveta to walk to find out, I can’t even see that far!”_  
  
_He hops from Roadie, who growls a little, displeased with being used as a human lighthouse._  
  
_“C’mon then! It’s not going ta measure itself!”_  
  
_He starts of down the road, pressing the comm at this ear, keen to share his success with Satya._  
  
_“Hey, Metra, you there? Did ya see that bloody thing go off? Wasn’t she a beaut?!”_  
  
_There’s no reply and he frowns, a tendril of concern worrying up his spine._  
  
_Mei breaks in on the line. “Think she was coming over to see your great big explosion,” she laughs, the comm crackling with her mirth. “She probably went deaf being so close. I can barely hear you now and I’m on the other side of town. That was humongous, how can your ears not be ringing?”_  
  
_He glows with her praise, wishing he could bloody well do a proper skip to his lou. “They are, but ‘m used to it. If you see her, tell her to come see me, yeah?”_  
  
_“Sure thing!” Mei chirps, and then she gasps. “Mercy?”_  
  
_The voices are muffled, he thinks she’s covering the link with her hand, it sounds like they’re all talking through water._  
  
_“Junkrat…” her voice is trembling now, and that little tendril of concern spikes again, something in his gut telling him he’s not going to like what she’s about to tell him._  
  
_“How close are you to the main tower?”_  
  
_“Me an’ Roadie are about five hundred feet or so away,” he replies, squinting into the distance, hearing his voice shake against his will. “Why? What’s wrong?”_  
  
_“I…” Mei’s voice fades out again, and the background voice get louder. “I can’t be sure, Mercy’s suit is on the fritz, but she thinks that… Satya may be hurt.”_  
  
_If she says anything else, he doesn’t hear, he’s sprinting as fast as he possibly can, careening through alleyways, nearly bowling over a few trashcans._  
  
_It feels like seconds before the tower comes into view— it feels like hours._  
  
_He sees her then, leaning against the wall, and he slows in relief._  
  
_If she’s standing, she’s alright, if she’s standing she’s— she’s—_  
  
_Covered in red._  
  
_He throws himself forward, his heart trying to ram its way out of his chest._  
  
_“Metra!”_  
  
_She doesn’t answer him._  
  
_“Satya!”_  
  
_He’s nearly at her side when she lifts her head to look at him._  
  
_She’s smiling, and her teeth are red too._  
  
_“Always a little late, hmm, Jamie?”_  
  
_Her voice is soft, unaccusing, and as she takes her hand away from the wound on her stomach, he knows he doesn’t deserve it._  
  
_A piece of shrapnel is stabbed through her side, driving all the way through, pinning her like a tack to a cork board against the stone wall._  
  
_A piece of shrapnel._  
  
_Shrapnel._  
  
_From his bomb._  
  
_He falls to his knees at her side, good hand shaking, his bad arm clattering as he quakes._  
  
_“No,” he whimpers, “No, I didn’t… I didn’t mean… didn’t know…”_  
  
_His breath comes fast and panicked, while hers continues to slow._  
  
_“Listen to me, listen, priya.” She places her hand on his cheek, even that slight movement making her weak._  
  
_“Listen,” she whispers hoarsely, and he can hear blood clogging in her throat. “This is not your fault, Jamie. You’re right. You did not know.”_  
  
_He draws her hand away from his face, she leaves a sticky imprint he will see later, bright, angry, blaring red, making his eyes ache._  
  
_He tries to make her put it back on her waist, but it falls limp at her side._  
  
_“Satya,” he pleads, “You’ve got ta put pressure on the wound. That’s what Mercy is always tellin’ me. She’s comin’ soon, ya just gotta hang on, love. Ya just gotta hang on.”_  
  
_Her eyes are closed, her head tilting towards the sky._  
  
_“I’m going home, Jamie,” she whispers. “You don’t need to cry.”_  
  
_He hadn’t realized he is crying, the tears came so quick and silent, he’d missed when they began._  
  
_“No,” he begs her, pressing her blood caked hand on her wound, gently, gently, but still she sighs with pain, too tired to let out a cry. “Satya, no.”_  
  
_“Tell my parents,” she continues, as if she can’t quite hear him anymore. And maybe she can’t, she’s looking towards the heavens, that smile he wants to cradle in his palms like a glowing ember of warmth, shines towards something, someone, he cannot see._  
  
_“Tell my parents I did what was right. That I accomplished much. That I died with honor, doing something I loved.”_  
  
_“Satya,” the sobs threaten to shake him, but he has to stay still, has to keep pressure on the wound. “Ya can’t leave. We need you ‘ere, with us. I need ya. Please. I need ya.”_  
  
_She brings her head down, seeming to refocus on him._  
  
_She smiles again, and even gleaming a violently wrong shade of ruby, it is beautiful._  
  
_“You are needed too. You all will fill the gap I leave behind, you will continue to do good, even while I’m gone.”_  
  
_He drops his head. He can’t meet her eyes._  
  
_Her voice takes on quaking urgency, rasping breaths scraping her ribcage clean of her last vestiges of oxygen._ _“Jamison, you will, won’t you?”_  
  
_He doesn’t answer her, just stares at the wound underneath his good hand, still gushing maroon, staining white and blue._  
  
_“Jamie,” she cries, frightened. And it hits him like a lash across the back._  
  
_“Yes,” he gasps, even though he’s not sure he means it. He won’t cause her anymore pain, not now, not at the end, not after all he did. “Yes, I will. Me an’ Hog both.”_  
  
_“Promise me,” she rasps, and her eyes are going dark as they travel back to the sky._  
  
_She twists her weak fingers around his hand, relieving the pressure over the wound, letting it flow free._  
  
_“Jamie, please promise me.”_  
  
_“I promise,” he chokes, pressing close to her thigh. “Satya, I promise. Only… please don’t leave me.”_  
  
_She is silent._  
  
_He pushes closer, inhaling her flower perfume, now marred and tarnished forever by an acrid copper scent. All flowers will smell like blood for the rest of his days._  
  
_“Satya,” her name is a drawn out howl, echoing around the courtyard._  
  
_She is silent._  
  
_“Satya,” he brings his arms around her legs, knowing that if he just doesn’t look, this won’t be the end. He just won’t look. He just won’t look up, ever again._  
  
_She is silent._  
  
_They find him like that, arms wrapped around her corpse, face buried in her side, blood pouring over his head, his back, maybe it’s in blood he cries._  
  
_They don’t move him for a long while._  
  
_They don’t move him until the birds arrive, cackling their cruelty, their joy at a meal so bloody and fresh. His ears are filled with the mocking squawks of circling birds, mocking his pain._  
  
_They have to drag him off, he doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t want to leave her, he doesn’t want to let go—_  
  
_They drag him off, no matter how he struggles or screams or cries._  
  
_They drag him off and he sees her, late afternoon sun slanting out of the sky, painting the stone behind her soft pink, like the blood she bled had thinned and spread across the walls._  
  
_Her head is laying against the stone, chin pointed up, her eyes wide and sightless, her mouth curling and still kind. She looks at peace._  
  
He wakes with a scream, slamming his head into the bottom of Roadie’s bike.  
  
He clutches at his head, curling into a tight ball, letting the wails rip out of him, letting himself feel the hate.  
  
The truth is, he doesn’t hate everything.  
  
She hadn’t _made_ him hate anything at all.  
  
The truth is, he loved her, with everything he had. With every bit of his worthless, battered, ugly heart.  
  
The truth is, he still does.  
  
The truth is, he killed her. He destroyed the most beautiful thing he’d ever been allowed to lay his grimy, corrupt hands on.  
  
He killed her.  
  
The truth is, he does hate, he does hate with every fiber in his being, every blasted bone and slippery vein, every thump of his heart, every breath he takes, every second of the day.  
  
He hates _**himself.**_  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, hoping she’ll hear him. Hoping she’ll understand.  
  
He thinks, once he gets to where he’s going, the good angels won’t be delivering any messages from him.  
  
He throws in one for Roadie. “I’m sorry,” he breathes unsteadily, and begins making plans.  
  
Plans that will get him alone, and keep him alone till it’s done.  
  
Roadie isn’t going to stop him this time.  
  
He’d saved that piece of metal for a reason. He knew what it was meant for the moment he saw Mercy remove it from her side.  
  
Nobody had noticed he’d taken it.  
  
Except Roadie, that’s how he’d stopped him.  
  
He’d painted everything red that night, just as she had, exactly like she had. Same place, same cruel, steel, weapon.  
  
Roadie had found him, damn the giant bastard. He’d found him and stopped him before he could finish his destruction.  
  
This time there’d be no mistakes. No saving him.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, wishing it meant something, wishing it was enough to stop him.  
  
“I’m sorry, Satya.” And he hates that relief bleeds through his shame. “I can’t keep my promise.”  
 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone doesn't hate me too much. :/ Sorry. If it makes you feel better, I was in as much pain writing this as you were reading it??
> 
> Kind words and constructive criticism are always loved. Thank you for reading!


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